thunder and smoke issuing from the goblet and dregs before him were diminished
to insignificance. It was neither voice from either god; it was comprised of
both.
Both! This was too much. His own fury roused. He detested being invaded; he
hated being an instrument, a pawn, the butler of one murder god, the batman of
another.
He fought the heaviness in his limbs which demanded that he sit, still and pop
eyed, like Theron across the table from him, and meekly submit to whatever
manifestation was in the process of coalescing before him. He snarled and cursed
the very existence of godhead and managed to get his hands on the stout edge of
the plank table.
He squeezed the wood so hard that it dented and formed round his fingers like
clay, but he could not rise nor could he banish the babble of divine
infringement from his head.
And before him, where a cup had rolled, wheels spun- golden-rimmed wheels of a
war chariot drawn by smoke-colored Tros horses whose shod hooves struck sparks
from the stones of the palace floor. Out of a maelstrom of swirling smoke it
came, and Tempus was so mesmerized by the squealing of the horses and the
screech of unearthly stresses around the rent in time and space through which
the chariot approached that he only barely noticed that Theron had thrown up
both hands to shield his face and was cowering like an aged child at his own
table.
The horses were harnessed in red leather that was shiny, as if wet. Beyond the
blood-red reins were hands, and the arms attached were well-formed and strong,